


Fly the Moon (and Reach for the Stars)

by Plainxte



Series: The Path of Nevermore [2]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Airplane Sex, Airplanes, Dragons, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Missing Scene, Mythical Beings & Creatures, RPF, Smut, Storytelling, Touring, bittersweet memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27098371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte
Summary: Memories can overwhelm you with sadness, or they can bring you comfort. Roger wouldn't exchange them for anything.Or, Roger remembers some moments on an airplane with Freddie.Or, what happens on tour, stays on tour. Maybe. Possibly.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Series: The Path of Nevermore [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977088
Comments: 22
Kudos: 31





	Fly the Moon (and Reach for the Stars)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/gifts).



> Once upon a time (last year), I wrote a story called [The Path of Nevermore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137882/chapters/50304536). In a comment, back then, the wonderful Nastally pointed out that there was a scene missing. And that I should write it. So here it is, after all this time: the missing scene, or an epilogue of sorts. 
> 
> It wouldn't be a bad idea to read that longer story before this, but this epilogue should work as a standalone, too. 
> 
> All you really need to know before reading is that in this small AU, Freddie wrote stories about the King of Rhye, collecting them in a notebook. Sometimes he told those stories to Roger, or they made them up together. The book eventually ended up with Roger.
> 
> All the thanks to Quirkysubject for the beta read & encouragement & saving this fic! 💖
> 
> And, importantly – happy birthday, Nastally! 💝✨🥳🎈 I hope it's a fantastic one. This one's for you! 😘

*

_Surrey, December 2019 / Somewhere in North America, November 1977_

*

He missed Freddie. He always did. It was a constant of his life, one that wasn't going to change. No matter how much time went by. Every day, there was something that reminded him of Freddie. Or things that he would have wanted to tell him, once upon a time. Things that he thought would have made Freddie laugh. Even if it had been now long enough that these days, he mostly caught himself quickly before he had the time to get too immersed in his thoughts. And often, he even managed to stave off the wave of sadness. 

They were good memories, and it was good to remember. And he wouldn't have exchanged them for anything in the world. But sometimes – well, no need to try to fool himself. It always got too much, at some point.

Roger was standing in his garden again, frowning down at the rhododendrons. He had been staring for far too long at the old, battered notebook filled with Freddie's stories and Freddie's songs, and had felt he needed to come out for some air. The inside of the house had felt stifling, too close, and all his memories threatened to drown him. 

He breathed deeply; the air was cold, and there was a thin covering of frost on the ground. He had put on a pair of dark glasses to ward off the worst of the glare of the day. Besides, it always seemed easier to think when his eyes weren't exposed. But he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be thinking about. Or what kind of a clarity it was possible for him to reach that day, or ever. 

It wasn't as though he was trying to shy away from the painful memories. It wasn't. The long months of watching Freddie decline, of hoping against hope, of trying to deny what they all could see was happening. Denying it to themselves as they were denying it to everyone else, too. 

Not that Freddie ever tried to do that. To deny it, or to not see where it all was heading. He had been brave; braver than the rest of them combined. But he had been so gentle, too, there, towards the end. He never insisted on talking about things when he saw Roger had a hard time dealing with them.

In the slanting winter sunlight, Roger's throat constricted suddenly. He tried to swallow back his tears. He rubbed at his eyes under the glasses, surreptitiously, even though there was no one there to see.

No. It wasn't as though he was trying to skip over the painful parts. He wasn't trying to refuse to see the whole of Freddie's life, or to concentrate only on the happiness. On everything he achieved. That wasn't it. Never that. And besides, sometimes the pain of the memories was mellow, and there was a bittersweet quality to the recollection of even those last couple of days. But often, it was too much, the thought of dwelling on dying, and of the dimming of the light. And it wasn't as though the memory of joy was a lie, either.

You needed to have both, he decided. A balance. Roger sighed. And if his balance leaned more to the pleasant memories, of laughter and times together, of performances and parties and shared moments, well. He shook his head ruefully and shifted, startling a small brown bird that had been hopping along the gravel path in front of him. The sadness and the loss were never too far behind. There was no fear he was going to forget about them any time soon.

Suddenly, he was hit with a very clear memory. Walking along the corridor of a small private jet, coming from the loo, adjusting his sunglasses and trying to appear nonchalant. Freddie had gone in front of him, and now it was his turn to strut back to their seats, trying to appear as though nothing had happened. If he didn't think about any of it, then it wouldn't show on his face, either, and no one would need to know, that's what he remembered thinking.

And then he had seen John sitting nearby, a glass in his hand. He had had one eyebrow raised, and that inscrutable look on his face that John so often used to great advantage. The one that hid all kinds of things, or seemed to, at least. And all he had said had been a quiet, "Really?"

Roger remembered the strange mix of elation and happiness, shame at being caught and an odd sense of nakedness that flooded through him. He couldn't help the very impudent grin that stretched out on his lips, or pushing the tip of tongue to peek from behind his lips, just a tiny bit. John had sighed and shaken his head, and that had been that.

But what had come before that, why they had ended up in the back of the plane in the first place, that was something he hadn't really thought of for a long time. Had _tried_ not to think about. Good memories, really, they were, the best. But once again, laced with too much pain. Too much regret and thoughts of what he should have done differently over the years.

He remembered the heady feeling of Freddie so close to him, there in that cramped space. The private plane had been a fairly luxurious affair, a far cry from one of those horrible claustrophobic tin tubes that most commercial aircrafts had become, but the loo still wasn't designed to accommodate two people. And above all else, it wasn't built for two people engaging in any, well, exciting activities. 

If he shut his eyes and concentrated, he could still remember the sound of Freddie's breathing and the way it caught and stuttered. And that was before they had even done much of anything. It was the anticipation, more than anything else. That, and the illicit thrill of knowing that the others were so close by. Fumbling in the small space, fingers reaching for Freddie's fly, touching denim and trying to get the button open while their lips met, hot and needy and – no, stop there.

Or, actually. No, don't stop. There was nothing – nothing there that he needed to conceal from himself anymore, was there? 

He was sure there was a blush on his face. Despite it all. For everything that he regretted, and there was so much that he did, those stolen moments were not on the list. Never. Never that. Where the sadness came in was when he blamed himself for not telling Freddie how he treasured those occasions. For not having made sure that – and that line of thinking wasn't getting him anywhere.

It had been somewhere in America, he recalled that much. In the late Seventies. When they had really, finally, made it big. It had been late autumn, but not yet winter proper. In the cold, the days and the places blended in to each other. But there had been a night when Freddie had suddenly sought him out, like he hadn't done in a long while. Or maybe it had just been chance. He couldn't recollect the exact details anymore. But there had been a hotel lobby, and Roger had been more than a little drunk. Freddie and he, they had talked. Freddie had spun one of his fantastical tales, one of a kind that they used to amuse themselves with back when they were just starting out. It had been nice, and it had been a little odd. That kind of thing hadn't happened between them for a long time.

Roger remembered that they had been interrupted. There had been something that Freddie had wanted to say, or perhaps he had wanted to say something himself, and there hadn't been time. And there had been a definite… intent in Freddie's eyes when they had agreed to continue their discussion on the plane. Intent, and perhaps… a light? One that Roger had occasionally seen directed at himself, but it had been a while since that had happened, too. There were families, commitments, and arguments. All of that had made it difficult to be unguarded with each other anymore.

And he remembered Freddie.

*

It was very late, or maybe it was early. That kind of timeless time where it seemed that the whole world was asleep except for them. They moved in the strange half-light of predawn and the glow of the streetlights, where everything felt slightly unreal. 

Ratty was standing next to a pile of luggage, yawning wide enough to be in danger of dislocating his jaw. Crystal was blinking blearily next to him, swaying slightly on his feet. John looked like he was still mostly asleep, and Brian was staring at something in the distance only he could see. Of the whole entourage, only Gerry looked unruffled as ever, his face inscrutable, giving no hint as to his thoughts. It was quiet. No one felt like expending the energy to talk.

Slowly, they filed into their limos and started one more part of the tour. The trip to the airport wasn't a long one, but Roger felt restless. He had gone through tiredness and come out on the other side, he thought. Not the first time that had happened, and it probably wasn't going to be the last. Not even on this tour.

Maybe he could sleep a bit on the plane. That would help.

But then, Freddie's words from earlier kept circling in his head. That they needed to finish the story Freddie had been telling him on the plane. The story about a golden-haired king in a distant land of fantasy (Roger was never quite sure if Freddie was mocking him with that, with the king's light hair, all of it, or whether there was something else that he was trying to say), and his loyal dark-haired counsellor. A curl of excitement warred with the tiredness as he thought about it.

A story about magic. About dragons and kings. Roger moved restlessly, scoffing a bit at himself. Hadn't they left all of that fanciful nonsense behind them already? With A Night at the Opera, at least, if not already earlier? All those stories about fairies – literally fairies, that's what they had been – and ogres and whatnot, that had all been back then. Way back in that faraway world when they had dreamed about fame and fortune – and the occasional dragon – in flatshares and pubs, a pair of broke students. Hadn't they? 

Not that he minded the odd sci-fi novel here or there. He was quite fond of them, even. And it wasn't as though he hadn't read his share of fantasy novels, too. Whyever not? They were all good fun. But this was different. Wasn't it?

It had become almost like a game between them, back then. Telling stories. Even though it was Freddie, mostly, who had the ideas. It had taken Roger a while to warm up to the idea. A while before he understood that it wasn't really the stories that were important, of course. It might have started out that way, that Freddie really was thinking about what happened to that King of Rhye he had first dreamed up all those years ago. But gradually, it had become more of a shorthand between them. It was a way for Freddie to signal that he wanted to talk about them, or that he wanted to talk just to Roger. That when he was talking about the king, he might actually be talking about Roger. Or that's what he had thought, anyway.

These days, he wasn't so sure. There was so much that stood between them. Everything in their day-to-day lives was involved and complicated enough that there had been few occasions for fairy-tales recently. 

But this time, Freddie had brought it up deliberately. There was something he wanted to say with that. There had to be. The fact of the matter was, Roger sighed to himself, was that he missed Freddie. Even when he was right there. He missed the easiness of their earlier closeness.

Even at the airport, they didn't speak. Freddie glanced at him, a couple of times, almost furtively. Roger found himself inexplicably standing next to Freddie as they waited to board. Their elbows were almost touching, an undercurrent of tension between them.

It seemed natural, then, to sit down beside Freddie on the plane. Paul looked less than happy about it, and seemed to be on the verge of commenting. But something in Freddie's face made him back off quickly and go sit somewhere a bit further off, without a word. For all intents and purposes, they were left alone. Brian was in the row behind them, and across the aisle, Gerry was talking quietly with one of the roadies. 

A member of the crew handed Freddie a blanket. He accepted it with a surprised, "Oh! Thank you."

The cabin lights were dimmed right after take-off, and a kind of peace descended on the passengers. It seemed that most people were at least trying to sleep. A lone overhead light was on somewhere at the front. Maybe someone was trying to read?

Even though it was in the middle of the night, and they had a show to play the next night – well, later that day – Roger felt wide awake. The oddness of their conversation in the hotel lobby and his own thoughts had unnerved him, somehow.

But it didn't come to anything. Freddie, seeing Roger looking at him, tsk'd and grumbled, irritably, "Oh, go to sleep, Roger. It's far too early. Or something. It'll keep. Later."

Freddie did move a little closer, though, and the warm weight that settled against Roger's shoulder was a tiny bit of a comfort. Eventually, Roger drifted off to a fitful doze, too.

In the next days, the strain between them didn't go away. Roger relished in it, but he also found himself following Freddie, more than usual, from the corner of his eye. Thinking. Weighing. Wondering. What did it all mean? Where would it all lead to? How did the story continue?

And then it was another day, and it was time for another flight. Roger shivered as he trudged towards the small plane waiting on the airfield, in the freezing cold. His coat simply wasn't thick enough for the snow. Nothing was, he thought morosely. But it wasn't as though the hangover was helping matters. The sun was shining, but its weak rays gave no warmth. Just made it feel even colder, if that was possible.

Freddie had barely glanced at him all day. He had acted as though Roger wasn't there at all, although he had to have seen him looking, as he had been doing all along. It nagged at Roger, and made him feel uneasy. He resolved to take it up with Freddie, finally. Make a move of some sort.

Freddie blinked when he sat down beside him. His dark eyes flashed from under his brows as he took Roger in.

"Something on your mind, Rog?"

Roger took a deep breath. "I've been thinking."

Freddie hummed. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Ha ha, that's very funny. Careful or you'll cut yourself, you're so sharp," Roger grouched. 

The noise Freddie made might have been a bark of laughter, or it might have been something else. Roger opened his mouth to say something about stories and promises, only to be distracted by the sight of Freddie's long fingers, fiddling restlessly with a pen, looking like he was planning on sketching something. He really had beautiful hands. Strong and still elegant, Roger thought. 

"What?" Freddie asked, turning his head curiously.

It didn't help. All it did was bring the sharp lines of Freddie's cheekbones and nose into focus, and it left Roger contemplating Freddie's eyes. Once again.

"Oh. I." Roger tried to gather his scattered thoughts. "It's just, I've been thinking about what you said the other day. About those old stories of yours. About – I mean –"

"I know. The stories about the King of Rhye. And what happened to him." Freddie shifted, and turned to look Roger straight in the eye. "But as I remember it, Roger, I mean, I believe _you_ promised _me_ you'd tell me a story. For old times' sake?"

"I did?" Roger's mind was blank, for the moment.

"You did." There was a determined look in Freddie's beautiful dark eyes. Maybe he, too, was making up his mind about something. "How about you tell it to me now?"

"Sure, Freddie," Roger said. "Um. How did it go, again?"

Freddie sighed. "Honestly, Roger. You're the one who brought it up. The King of Rhye found himself in a bit of a sticky situation. He had brought a war to an end and there was peace again in his land, but it came with the condition that he had to sacrifice himself for his people. You remember now?"

"Sort of, yes." Roger cleared his throat. "So they had told him – the king, I mean – that he had to try to do the impossible. He had to walk the path, as they said, wasn't that it?"

Freddie was nodding.

"And most people who did that didn't return. It was almost like a certain death sentence. Only that because this is a fairy kingdom and all that, it's not all that simple."

Roger was warming up to his theme, now. It became easier and easier the longer he talked.

"Because there were all these stories, weren't there, about people who had done that and come back. When everyone had already despaired, somehow, they survived and came back to the people they loved. But they were changed. It wasn't easy."

"Yes," Freddie agreed. "But Roger, what I really want you to tell me about is what happened just before the king left for his fool's errand. What actually happened between him and the person who was closest to him. His counsellor? I want to hear about that."

"Right. Um. Let me think," Roger said, not looking at Freddie. "The king had a – an advisor. A counsellor who was closer to him than anyone else in the world. They had been through a lot of things together, and the king trusted the counsellor like he trusted no one else in the world."

"Yes, I know all that already," Freddie sounded impatient. "But how did they say goodbye to each other?"

Roger swallowed. For some reason, his throat felt dry. "On the night before the king had to leave, the counsellor sought him out. In his chambers, where they were alone and he could speak freely."

"Did he?" Freddie asked, voice low. "And what did he say?"

Roger gathered his courage and looked up, meeting Freddie's eyes. "I think they agreed to never say goodbye. And to never lose hope."

"And?" Freddie leaned closer.

"And –" Roger lowered his voice, just in case. He glanced around him. It didn't look like anyone was paying them much attention, but it couldn't hurt. Maybe most of the people on the plane with them were simply so used to the two of them sitting with heads close together, hatching crazy plans, that they didn't even register anything out of the ordinary. Which was all to the good, of course.

"And the counsellor asked the king to – to let him stay the last night with him. To touch him, and to be close to him."

"Just to spend the night? To help him sleep, maybe?" Freddie had set the pen aside, but his hands were still playing with the edge of the paper.

"What do you think?" Roger asked, close to losing his nerve altogether. 

"I think," Freddie said, so low that Roger had to strain himself to hear. "I think that he said yes. And I think that the counsellor said to the fair-haired king, do you know what he said? He said, I am yours, my king. I am here for you. I am yours to do whatever you like with."

Roger took a breath. "You mean – he said, the counsellor – that he wanted the king to – to take control. To make a stand and claim his love for his own?"

He wasn't sure he was talking about the story any longer.

"Roger – you –" Freddie made a frustrated sound. He stood up, abruptly, leaning back down to whisper in Roger's ear. 

"Come to the back. But after me. Not quite yet. Let's not attract too much attention."

And with that, he was gone. Roger gulped. He tried to check his surroundings again, as unobtrusively as possible, but everyone seemed to be immersed in their own things. Brian was frowning down at a camera in his lap, but he didn't even look up when Roger moved past him. 

The loo at the back was small, but with a tiny bit of a squeeze, he could just fit himself in there after Freddie, closing the door behind them. It was hardly very romantic, but there was something about how risky it all was that was incredibly exciting. 

Before he had the time to start second-guessing himself, Roger closed what little distance there remained between them, lifting a hand to cradle Freddie's neck and to bring their lips together. Freddie made a pleased little sound at the back of his throat, and Roger felt his nose touch his cheek, and his hands searching for and settling on his hips.

There was no room for anything complicated. But when Freddie pushed Roger's trousers and underwear down just enough to wrap his long fingers around him, Roger copied the idea. With their hands around both of them, it didn't take long until Roger's head was spinning with it. Judging from the way Freddie's breathing was closer to moaning, he wasn't far behind.

Roger felt himself drawing nearer and nearer to the edge. Almost there, just a bit more and he was going to – when an unpleasant thought hit him.

"Freddie, don't get me wrong, this is great, ah," he trailed off when Freddie changed the angle of their hands just a little.

"But?" Freddie breathed against his cheek.

"But we really can't make a mess, can we? I can't hold on much longer –"

Freddie picked up speed again, even though Roger wasn't doing anything to help anymore.

"Don't worry, darling," he whispered, teeth scraping delicately on the very edge of Roger's ear. "I've got it all figured out. I don't know if you noticed. We're in a toilet. There are towels."

It was absolutely the wrong time to lose it, but Roger couldn't control the giggles that burst from his mouth.

"What are you –" Freddie hissed, and then he was chortling, too. They leaned against each other, shaking silently, trying to keep the noise down.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to do that," Roger whispered once he could draw breath again. With a final snort of laughter, Freddie got more serious again.

"I wasn't finished with you yet," he said. He picked up speed again, Roger joining him, and soon they were right back where they had been.

"Shouldn't that be the other way around?" Roger asked. "'Yours to do whatever you like with,' wasn't that it?"

Freddie made a small sound in the back of his throat at that.

It only took a couple more strokes until, with his face pressed into Roger's collar, biting down on the fabric to keep the noise down, Freddie came over both their hands. Roger quickly followed, pressing as close to Freddie as he possibly could all the while. 

*

Listening to the song of the birds in his garden, Roger breathed in the wintry air. Of all the foolhardy things they'd ever done, he and Freddie, that scene in the airplane loo, with the others just on the other side of a flimsy wall, it had to be the most reckless. But their luck had held, and it seemed that John was the only one who ever realised what was happening. And that was all right, at the end of the day; Roger knew that John would never tell a soul.

But remembering, or reading through all of Freddie's stories again, it didn't mean that he was any closer to being fine with the loss, or the sorrow, or the pain. How would that work, anyway? There were no epiphanies to be found in his garden. He knew that. He scuffed his toe on the edge of the tiles, glancing sideways up at the statue that stood there on the edge of the lawn, unmoving, silent. And despite it all, still he felt strangely comforted.

Maybe it was all worth it, after all. To have gone through all those old things, even when it meant tears, even after all these years when he'd thought he'd cried himself dry over and over again. To finally be able to remember all of it, the good with the bad, the irresponsible with the magical. To recall how they reached for the skies, together. Touched the stars. Not all the time. But enough for the memories to last forever.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Do tell me what you thought!


End file.
